


As The World Falls Down

by santaevita



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santaevita/pseuds/santaevita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the end of S2. Dale Cooper is trapped in the Black Lodge, and it's Albert who goes to get him back. Dale/Albert the main pairing, with Dale/Annie mentioned.</p><p>Content warnings: one incident of self harm, brief references to blood and gore, some ableist expressions used by characters, feelings of unreality experienced by characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As The World Falls Down

 

 _I stumbled out of bed_  
_I got ready for the struggle_  
_I smoked a cigarette_  
_And I tightened up my gut_  
_I said this can't be me_  
_Must be my double_

Leonard Cohen, I Can’t Forget

_But I’ll be there for you, as the world falls down_

David Bowie, As The World Falls Down

 

Red curtains, full of shadows and secrets. A corridor leading repeatedly to the same room, no matter how many times you walk down it, no matter which direction. No way out. If you stare at the floor too long, with its endlessly repeating pattern in black and white, you start to feel as if you’re falling. But that’s nothing compared to what happens if you look at the residents of this place for too long. The room has different people (they look like people, anyway) occupying it depending on which way you’ve walked down the corridor of red curtains. They speak strangely, the residents, and in riddles. Red curtains ripple without a breeze. At this time, to the extent that there is time here, and there probably is not, a man in a suit stands at the divide in the red curtains which signals the entrance – or exit- to the room. His hairline is receding, and his whole bearing, demeanour, facial expression, can only be described as truculent. He embodies truculence.

     “For Christ’s sake, this place is about as tasteful as the Great Northern,” he growls. “I’d like to speak very frankly to whoever picked those godforsaken curtains.”

     As he says these words, nothing happens, but one gets the distinct impression that this place, this place not of our world, this place which normally we can only access during dreams, this place where space and time are twisted and restless spirits roam the black and white floor, this place where there is no way out by conventional means – well, one gets the distinct impression that the Black Lodge is disgruntled.

***

     Albert should have felt more irritation than he in fact did at having to make the tedious, Douglas-fir-filled drive up to Twin Peaks for the fifth time. It wasn’t that he _wasn’t_ irritated. He was. He’d sworn copiously once he’d come off the phone to Sheriff Truman. But there it was – the very fact of Truman calling him instead of Cooper, not to mention how vague and uninformative he had been, had given him a knot in his stomach which was currently failing to find release in cigarette after cigarette. The inside of the car was getting pungent, to say the least, with the smell, but Albert wouldn’t roll down the windows. To do that would be to let in the scent of the ever-present Douglas fir, which he was beginning to loathe. He channelled all his dislike of Twin Peaks, of small town life, all his fear that the longer Coop spent there the more likely he was to get hurt – all his feelings about that shitty backwater town in the middle of fucking nowhere, in fact – into the actually quite innocuous scent of the evergreen tree. It was more efficient that way. But it did make the drive feel longer.

     “It’s Cooper,” Truman said to him when he finally got there. “He’s been acting pretty strange.”  
     “Jesus, Truman, you brought me up here because _Cooper’s_ been acting strange? When the hell isn’t he?”

     “Not like this. Have a coffee – there’s a lot to fill you in on.”  
     “I can’t wait,” mumbled Albert, his attempted sarcasm evidently half-hearted. Three coffees later, he stopped even trying.

***

     Albert wanders back and forth between the room and itself several times. He starts off by shouting “Coop? Coop?” There is no answer, not exactly, but every time he leaves the room to walk down the curtained corridor again he can hear whispers and strange noises behind him. The first time, he looks round. There is no one there – no one visible – and now the noises sound as if they’re coming from the other end of the corridor. Behind him.  
   “Figures,” he mutters. He calls for Cooper again. There are more noises, some muffled scufflings, and he can just about hear, in the very far distance, someone singing. It is time for him to reconsider his plan, and he does this in the same way he usually does; by smoking. When his lighter burns mysteriously green, and his cigarette goes up in a flash of flame, smoke falling like lead towards the floor, making it impossible to smoke the damn thing and burning his fingers at the same time, he really begins to get irritated.

   “This is bullshit,” he states aloud, staring at the small pile of ash at his feet. “Whoever’s running the shittiest carnival sideshow of all time, I want Cooper,” he shouts. There is no reply. Of course there isn’t. It is around now (for some sense of “now”) that Albert has a bright idea, inspired by some crappy film he went to see a few years ago with his nieces which reminds him oddly of his current situation; cautiously getting on his knees, he lifts up the red curtain in the corridor and peers underneath. As he suspected, he sees the room again. But this time the room is not empty.

***

     Albert had had some fairly unpleasant experiences in his time in the FBI – being a forensic pathologist doesn’t lend itself to pleasant experiences at the best of times, let alone being a devout pacifist in an organisation Albert was increasingly growing to suspect was an oppressive agent of the state – but he would have been willing to swear, at this moment, that this was the worst. “This”. Meeting Cooper, but a Cooper who was profoundly _wrong_ in a way which Albert struggled to pin down but was palpably obvious nonetheless. His smiles – perhaps it was that they were too fixed, perhaps it was that they were too wide, too symmetrical – but the smiles that Albert had grown fond of in spite of his best efforts were made horrible in this Cooper. His hand, when he had extended it cheerfully to shake Albert’s, was too hot – no, it was too cold – no, he was forced to admit, it was a perfectly normal temperature, but it wasn’t Cooper’s damn hand, no matter how much it looked like it. And it did look like it. Albert knew what Cooper’s hands looked like. Also, _did_ Cooper habitually shake Albert’s hand? He found it worryingly difficult to remember. It was plausible. But it didn’t feel right. Over Coop’s shoulder as they spoke, he could see Truman making worried faces, expressing perfectly the message “I know, right?” Jesus, he thought, maybe everything’s normal, maybe I’m just on the same thing every other nutjob in this town’s on, it’s probably something in those firs – but then his attention snapped back to whatever Coop was saying, and he knew nothing was normal.

     He had to go, resentfully, to see the Blackburn girl. He hadn’t enjoyed, not even one bit, hearing Truman tell him about her – unable to stem the warm tide of bitterness at the thought of Cooper dallying with her while Albert was hundreds of miles away. Perhaps it would have been worse if he’d been there. She was hard to dislike, though, even with Albert giving it his best effort.

     “Albert? Dale told me about you,” she said. They were at the Double R, Annie back at work. She sat across him, looking pale, doll-like and very young. She didn’t smile. Albert didn’t reply; he was finding it harder and harder to produce the kind of wise-cracking and unpleasant patter that put him at ease in social situations. He didn’t need to worry; she soon continued. “I can’t remember much about the place – the Black Lodge? I think Hawk told me it was called that. You’ll want to speak to him.”

     “I intend to, ma’am.”

     “But there is – there was something I needed to say, I think. I remember telling it to a nurse when I came round, but I’m struggling to remember now.” She was fiddling with the cross she wore around her neck, twisting it between her fingers. Albert watched with impatience, trying not to hurry her.

     “Why don’t you give it a go, ma’am,” he suggested, more gently than he meant to. He was growing soft.

     “It’s about Dale – you know he’s been strange since it happened? I think – I think maybe he’s still in there.”  
     “The Lodge?”

     “I think so – I’m not sure. It was so clear at first. But I don’t think this Dale – the Dale in Twin Peaks – _is_ Dale. Not even sometimes. He’s completely some – someone else.” Albert could tell that she had been on the verge of saying “something”. Something else. She was looking very scared, and had Albert been a different sort of man he might have given her a reassuring pat on the arm. As it was, he briskly gathered up his notes and put them in his jacket pocket, not looking at her.

     “Well, thank you –“

     “Albert,” she said, reaching for his hand. He didn’t jerk it away. “Get him back. Please get him back.” He felt, suddenly, great pity for her, in and out of a convent before she was twenty one, only to be followed by the hell that Twin Peaks had become in the last few weeks and her new boyfriend apparently stuck in another dimension. The kid was having a rough time of it. But he also felt miserable. Pity and self-pity. If, by the grace of a God about whose existence Albert was dubious, he fixed whatever was wrong with Coop, made him himself again, he’d be bringing him back to Annie, a pretty and kind young woman who shared no discernible traits with Albert. He moved his hand away carefully from hers.

     “Miss Blackburn,” he said, voice rough, pulling out his sunglasses. “I can promise you that if Cooper is indeed stuck in this place, nothing, be it fairies, goblins, demons or whatever the hell you have in these parts, is going to stop me getting him back.” He put on his sunglasses, feeling a little better for masking his eyes from her beseeching gaze.

***

     In the room – whether it is the same room as before or a different one hardly seems relevant, and it is a moot point whether the question can even be meaningfully posed here – in the room are three chairs, a coffee table, a statue and two tall lamps. Albert’s opinion of the interior designer of this place does not, by his eyebrows, appear to improve significantly. In two of the chairs are people, or perhaps manifestations masquerading as such. There is a woman Albert recognises as Laura Palmer. Last time he encountered her she was lying cold on a table, Albert cutting into her corpse, not seeing _her_ but her dead flesh, searching for evidence. Now she is dressed in black, older looking, sophisticated. In another chair is The Man from Another Place. Albert, of course, does not know that. He just thinks of him as the little guy in red. The Man and Laura Palmer observe Albert as he emerges from underneath the curtain.

     “O _kay_ , now we’re getting somewhere,” he says, brushing down his jacket. An unnecessary gesture; the floor is spotless. “Who’s in charge of this joint?” He does not address his question to either of them in particular. They tilt their heads in unison. Laura’s eyes are wrong.

     “Wel – come,” says The Man, in a strange and twisted voice. He gets up. He dances, slowly, then begins to laugh. Laura has vanished. Albert is really quite badly feeling the need for a cigarette, but makes do with pinching the bridge of his nose. “Would – you- like – some –coff –ee,” continues The Man, smiling enigmatically. He does not stop dancing.

     “No,” says Albert. “I can categorically state I don’t want any damn coffee. I want Cooper, and then I want to leave.” He hears footsteps behind him and glances round. Laura Palmer has reappeared. Of course she has.

     “Coo- per,” says The Man. “Coo –per is-in the – Lodge.”

     “Well, where the hell is this, then?” bursts out Albert, uncomfortably aware that wherever he stands, the apparition of Laura Palmer is, for reasons unclear, standing immediately behind him. The Man does not cease dancing, clicking his heels together.

     “This-is the wait – ting-room,” says The Man.

     “Right,” says Albert. “Right. Listen here, you miniature clown, I do my best to be a patient man, but you are stretching my limits. Wherever the hell Cooper is, I want to go there. Can you get that into your moronic skull?” The Man stops dancing and everything is very quiet; Albert has a sense of noise ceasing, although he wasn’t conscious of any noise before. He wonders if he’s just fucked up monumentally.

   “Fire – walk –with – me,” says The Man. Much as Albert’s cigarette did earlier, the whole place disappears in a burst of flame and is replaced by darkness and a quiet humming noise. Through intermittent flashes of blue light, Albert can see that he finds himself somewhere suspiciously similar to the waiting room. He can’t see anyone. He opens his mouth, ready to complain loudly to whoever’s willing to listen. Before he speaks, someone grabs his shoulder. He turns. A juddering light illuminates the person before him. It’s Cooper.

***

     “Every spirit has its shadow self in the Black Lodge, Agent Rosenfield, or so they say,” said Hawk. Albert took notes. “We call it the Dweller on the Threshold.”  
     “Uh, right,” said Albert. “The Dweller on the Threshold. Sure.” Albert and Hawk were at the Sheriff’s Department; Cooper – not that Albert liked to think of _him_ as Cooper – was at the Great Northern. Supposedly. Albert didn’t know for sure, and didn’t like not knowing.

     “Agent Rosenfield,” Hawk said sternly, “You may not believe in such things back in the city, but out here –“

   Albert sighed.

     “Honestly, Deputy, I think I’m ready to believe anything anyone tells me in this place, however stupid. Look – bear with me here, because this sounds crazy, but is there any chance that Cooper – Cooper that’s in Twin Peaks right now – is actually his, uh, Dweller on the Threshold?” Hawk didn’t reply at once. Albert pressed on. “And if Cooper’s Dweller is in Twin Peaks, would Coop be – “

     “In the Black Lodge,” completed Hawk, frowning slightly.

     “Right. Next question, where do I find this place?”

     “Agent, those who face the Lodge with imperfect courage, it is said, may have their souls totally annihilated.”

     Albert smiled, a brittle, out of place smile.

     “Deputy, I’m not convinced I ever had one. Besides, I got promises to keep.” He got up to leave. “And miles to go before I sleep,” he added as an afterthought.

***

     “Coop!” Albert exclaims, gripping Cooper by the arms, feeling Cooper’s body warm and more solid than he expects in this place. The light becomes steady again, but darker than before; the curtains a bloodier red. Cooper says nothing, looks past Albert, over his shoulder. He feels a prickling down his back.

     “Albert!” comes a jovial voice from behind him. Not letting go of Cooper’s arms, minutely aware of the texture of the fabric on Cooper’s jacket, he turns his head. It’s Cooper. Startled, he turns back to the man he’s holding. It’s Leland Palmer, head bloodied as it was when he died, grinning obscenely. Albert makes a noise of disgust and jerks away, turning as he does so back to the other Cooper. Cooper is not there. Laura Palmer stands there in his place. She looks as if she’s screaming, but she makes no sound.

   “For fuck’s _sake_ ,” says Albert, feeling for the first time a sense of defeat wash over him. He’d _had_ him, had Cooper in his hands.

     “You-are – in- the – wrong- room,” says a strange voice, and Albert is unsurprised to discover that The Man from Another Place has appeared from nowhere.

    “Foll – low-me,” says Laura, speaking in the same stilted voice as The Man. Albert shrugs. He may as well. Laura turns, leads him between the red curtains into the corridor again. The corridor is longer this time. She pauses at the end. Her lips are very red. “You – will –not-see – me- ag- gain.”

     “No offense, honey,” says Albert, “But that’s fine by me.” And he goes through the curtains. He is in the room again. There are four people in it. The Man from Another Place, a man in double denim – Albert winces – and long grey hair, and two Coopers. They are identical. Albert pauses. He wants to rush to Coop. Is stayed by the suspicion that one of them is the Dweller on the Threshold. The Man from Another Place speaks.

     “Let-me – in – tro – duce-you,” he says. “This-is – Dale-and – this –is –Coop –er.” He points to each Coop in turn. The man in double denim laughs. “Hell – lo, Bo – ob,” says The Man from Another Place. “How-do – you – do?”

     “Oh, so _you’re_ Bob,” says Albert. “Evil spirit, last seen possessing Leland Palmer? You ask me, pal, that outfit’s the scariest thing in this place.” His flippancy is pure bravado; the man with the long grey hair really does scare him. “Just give me Coop.”

     “Which – one,” says The Man. “Da – ale-or Coop-er.”

   “Cooper?” says Albert uncertainly. “Which one of you is, uh, you?” Neither Cooper replies; they both bear the glassy-eyed look which is characteristic of the Lodge; both have a vague, confused smile as if they’re not quite sure where they are. They both look just like his Cooper, Albert thinks, then feels a painful twinge as he reminds himself not to think of Coop as his. Neither Cooper has the terrifying wrongness of the Dweller on the Threshold. “This isn’t going to be like that puzzle, is it?” Albert says. “That one where one of you tells the truth and the other always lies and I get one question?” He’s reminded of that stupid movie again. Wonders if it is like that puzzle, if he can remember the solution.

     “You-must cho – ose,” says The Man. “One-or – the –oth-er.”

     “You gotta choose,” says a voice to the right of Albert. He turns, and sees the grinning face of Windom Earle. He fights the almost overwhelming urge to punch him. Quite apart from his ethical commitments, he’s not at all sure that it’d help the situation.

     “Yeah, you gotta choose,” says another voice, to his left. This time he looks to see – himself, but with grey, misted over eyes. His shadow self. His Dweller. He pushes away the image of this Albert, this grey-eyed double, returning, leaving him in the Lodge with this gang of lunatics. He tries instead to ignore the flanking figures of Earle and himself, looking from Cooper to Cooper, trying to work out which is the real Cooper. As he focuses on them, Earle and the other Albert fade. Literally. They vanish. Natch, he thinks.

     “Is it too much for a guy to ask for a little stability around here?” he says.

***

     “You sure?” asked Sheriff Truman. “I don’t know, Albert, this feels unethical.” Albert sighed. He was doing that a lot lately.

     “Sheriff, the chances are looking increasingly high that Cooper is in fact his dark side from another universe. I realise that sounds crazy, but crazy’s how things roll around here.” Truman looked as if he was going to object. Albert pressed on. “You ever see Star Trek? No? Widespread TV and film phenomenon, I’m sure it’ll make it out here in the next coupla decades. It’s like the mirror universe on Star Trek. Spock’s evil and has a beard – jeez, never mind.” Truman’s annoyance was being replaced by a look of dawning bafflement. “Point is, if Coop’s not Coop but an entity from this Lodge place, getting Doc Hayward to knock him out and taking him _back_ to the Lodge in a rescue mission for the _actual_ Coop seems pretty ethical to me.” Truman opened his mouth. Albert cut in. “Look, Truman, I don’t actually give a damn whether you approve or not, but your co-operation would make this a hell of a lot easier.” The Sheriff shrugged, smiling.

     “You’re a brave man, Albert.”

     “Shuddup,” growled Albert, turning away. “Just go and get Hayward on board. I don’t think he likes me much.”

     Albert, Hawk and Truman drove the unconscious Cooper-but-not-Cooper through the Ghostwood Forest that night. Truman and Hawk in the front of the car; Albert and Cooper in the back. Asleep, this Cooper manifested far less of the wrongness which was so otherwise evident. His face bore the faintest of smiles, was vulnerable rather than brittle and hard as he had been. When the car jolted on the rough track through the forest Albert lay his hand on Cooper to steady him. The second or third time, he didn’t bother taking his hand away. Made more sense to hold him steady properly. The moonlight flickered through the trees as they drove, occasionally illuminating Dale’s face in such a way as to make him look luminous and innocent in the pale light. Albert wondered if he was making a mistake. Coop had been through a hell of a lot lately. If he was wrong – no. He wasn’t wrong. The man beneath his hand _wasn’t Coop_. Albert shivered, but still didn’t take his hand away.

     “You don’t have to do this, Agent.” Hawk had come up to Albert while he was smoking a last cigarette near Glastonbury grove. No, not his _last_ cigarette, he corrected himself. His last before the mission. Not that there was any certainty yet that the portal to the Lodge would open again. He was running on faith and determination.

     “Thanks, Deputy, but I think you’ll find I do,” he replied, blowing a puff of smoke into a beam of moonlight. “After all, if there’s even a chance Cooper’s real self is in there, then it’s my responsibility.” He paused, waiting for Hawk to reply. “As surely as if it were my very own,” he finished. Hawk was looking at him with a frown. “Jeez,” said Albert. “Does no one in this backwater shit-hole watch Star Trek? Do you even have a cinema?”

     “I watch Star Trek,” said Hawk, the same expression on his face. “I see you more as a Dr. McCoy than a Kirk, Agent.” Albert found himself nonplussed. He disguised this by stubbing out his cigarette on a tree trunk. An owl hooted overhead.

     They need not have worried about the portal opening. As Albert approached the ring of sycamore trees and the strange smelling pool at its centre, bearing the sleeping Cooper over his shoulder, his vision flickered for a moment and he became aware of looming red curtains. He looked back.

     “Good luck, Albert,” said the Sheriff. “We’ll be waiting.”

     “Keep your courage strong,” said Hawk. “If it falters, even for a minute, your fundamental self may be lost to the forces of darkness.”

     “Ever thought about writing motivational posters, Deputy?” Albert asked, deadpan. “See you, gentlemen. If I don’t come back, be comforted by the thought that no matter what personal hell awaits me, at least I won’t have to set foot in this goddamn town again.” He didn’t wait for a response from either man, but stepped forward, holding Cooper tightly, through the shimmering red curtains.

     There was a period of darkness; Albert felt as if he must have been out for a while, but he wasn’t sure. His head felt fuzzy. Blinking, he tried to assess what he was seeing. He was in a corridor lined with rippling red curtains, a jagged monochrome pattern stretching out before him on the floor. He was completely alone.

***

     “What’s the deal?” Albert says uncertainly. “I choose the right Cooper, we get to go?” No one in the room responds; The Man from Another Place is dancing again, eyes carefully, unnervingly fixed on Albert; Bob is grinning (“Damned if I know what everyone here feels so happy about,” thinks Albert fleetingly) and hunched over slightly; the Coopers are still smiling vaguely and looking into the distance. The Man is by the chairs, the Coopers are in the middle of the room, and Bob over to the right in a corner. Albert goes over to the Coopers.

     “Coop?” he says, touching one of them lightly on the shoulder. He feels real enough, but he suspects that that’s not a reliable metric here. “Coop, can you hear me?” The Cooper he’s touching turns his head slightly towards Albert, but his eyes are unfocused and the faint smile doesn’t change. It’s unsettling. Albert wants to shake him, to force a reaction, but the queasy feeling that the Cooper’s eyes and smile would remain the same stays him. Perhaps the other Cooper – he turns to him. “C’mon, Cooper. Snap out of it.” He’s hoping for a distinguishing feature – perhaps one of them will have the grey, misted eyes that his own doppelganger had – but is disappointed. The second Cooper is identical. Perhaps the skin: he touches the first Cooper gently on the cheek, half-expecting him to melt away, but he feels warm, normal skin beneath his fingers. He has never touched Cooper like that before; he may not be doing so now. Cooper does not react. He moves to the second Cooper, and does the same. The skin feels the same, right down to the temperature. Albert leaves his fingers there a fraction longer than he ought. After all, he needs to be certain there’s no difference.

     Eventually Albert takes a step back, shoves his hand in his pockets where at least he can feel the comforting weight of his cigarette lighter, and thinks. The Coopers are the same, down to every detail. He’s pretty certain of that. If one of them’s evil Coop, there’s no way for him to tell. But he must choose. He considers what might happens if he insisted on choosing both. No; that’s not how the game’s going to work. He begins to have an inkling of what’s going to happen. They want him, the Lodge wants him, to agonise over the decision, make a choice at last on some perceived slight inaccuracy in one of the Coopers, be riddled with doubt over whether he made the right choice. He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a second, even finds time to offer up a brief and uncharacteristic prayer, then steps forward and, clearing his mind completely, grabs a Cooper, either Cooper.

     “This one,” he says firmly, holding Cooper tightly by his arms, doing his best to zone out the second Cooper. The Man from Another Place smiles broadly. Slowly, he raises his arm and clicks his fingers. The lights (there are no lights, though) go out.

     It is dark for a while. Albert’s every sense is alert; he thinks he can hear noises, small noises in the muffled gloom. He can see nothing, but focuses on the feeling of Cooper beneath his hands in the darkness. If the lights come up and he finds Cooper is someone else, he thinks, there’ll be fucking hell to pay. He does not consider how he will exact payment. Keeping one hand tightly grasping Cooper’s arm, he cautiously moves his other hand to Coop’s face, feeling it lightly in the darkness. It feels like Coop. The lights come up. Cooper – the _other_ Cooper – is lying on the floor in a pool of blood, moaning in pain.

     “Albert,” he says. “Albert, help me.” Albert comes so close – _so close_ – to thrusting the Cooper he’s still holding aside, rushing to the Cooper on the floor, trying to stem the blood flow. Then he remembers Hawk’s final advice to him before coming to this godforsaken place. Keep his courage strong. If it was his own soul hanging in the balance, Albert would have thrown it away in an instant to go the Cooper lying in blood and pain on the jagged floor, but it isn’t his soul he’s worried about. He tightens his grip on his Cooper and, out of some sense that Coop shouldn’t have to see himself dying, manoeuvres him until he is facing away. He doesn’t let go for a second. Some dim instinct deep within him tells him that if he lets go, all is lost.

     “Albert,” says the Cooper on the floor, in a voice rough with pain, extending a bloodied hand, “Albert, you chose wrong. That’s not me.” Albert shuts his eyes, fearful of weakening. He cannot shut out Cooper’s voice, though, and he wishes that the Cooper he has chosen would say something.

     “I’m sorry, Coop,” he says to the Cooper on the floor. If he is wrong – if that _is_ the real Cooper – _no_ , he tells himself, that’s what they want you to think. He cannot repress the smallest of smiles at how quickly he has gone from hard-boiled sceptic to full-blown conspiracy theorist. He opens his eyes again to check on the Cooper he’s holding. It’s still Coop. The Cooper on the floor is pale, bleeding out, his eyes fixed reproachfully – not angrily, angrily would have been better – on Albert. As if he’s deeply disappointed in him. The lights go out again.

     This time, when the lights come up, there is a spotlight on the Coop on the floor, darkness surrounding the circle of illumination. With Cooper is Bob, crouched by him, looking evilly – there really is no other adjective, I’m sorry – at Albert. It takes Albert a moment to notice that this time there is no blood on Cooper; he is uninjured again. It takes him another moment to notice the knife in Bob’s hand.

     “You gave him to me,” Bob says, gutturally. Albert has never felt so helpless, so much as if he’s doing the wrong thing, but can’t change his path now. He thinks of Hawk’s advice, fixes onto it.

     “Please, Albert,” says the Cooper on the floor. Before Albert can reply, his own double walks into the spotlight, standing next to the crouching Bob. The other Albert and Bob share a look, and Bob gives him the knife. Albert is pretty sure that things can’t get much worse. Then his doppelganger starts speaking. He is hard and sneering and cruel, and Albert is forced to recognise that there is little difference between him at his worst and the entity before him. He keeps a tight grasp on his Cooper, but finds little comfort.

   “It’s-no – ot-too – late – to- sa-ve-him,” says The Man from Another Place, who has materialised, gyrating, dancing, on the other side of Bob. This time, Albert grits his teeth, and does not look away as his shadow self slowly and deliberately slits the other Cooper’s throat. As it happens, he gathers up the Cooper he has chosen into an unwieldy embrace, which his Cooper accepts, unreactive. He looks over his Cooper’s shoulder to the scene in the spotlight. The other Albert’s hands are bloody, with Cooper’s blood. It looks unrelentingly real. In an effort to distract himself, his mind wanders back to that movie, trying to remember how it ended. Starred – starred that guy who looked weirdly like Agent Jeffries. The lights go out.

     The lights come up. The room is empty. He is still holding Cooper in his arms. Albert is not accustomed to hugging, but he’s damned if he’s going to let Cooper go now. Quite possibly literally damned, it occurs to him. He wonders if this is it; if he’s won whatever game is being played. The person in his arms begins to laugh, a mocking laugh right by his ear, and Albert realises that he is holding someone wearing a denim jacket, not the sombre suit Cooper had on. Not letting go, he pushes the person away from him slightly. Bob is laughing in his face. The lights flicker.

     Albert’s mind is almost blank. He feels terror and despair physically coursing through his body, but he is just about able to tell himself not to let go. He shuts his eyes, holds tightly, tells himself it’s Cooper, it’s Cooper, not Bob. Focuses on the film. How did it end? The next time he opens his eyes, it’s Windom Earle staring back at him, cackling, and the sound of laughter doesn’t alter as, seamlessly, he finds Leland Palmer in his grasp. Tries to remember those lines from the film, which seem be gaining increasing significance to him now.

     “My will is as strong as yours,” he mutters, to no one in particular. He does not let go, not even when he is faced with Cooper’s decomposing corpse slumped in his grasp, or a grey-eyed Maddy Ferguson screaming in his face. Screaming and laughing at the same time. “My will is as strong as yours. Uh.” He pauses. “You have no power over me,” he says at last. Then more loudly, in defiance to Bob, The Man from Another Place, and the whole fucking Black Lodge, “You have no power over me.” He pauses again. “And if you don’t let me take Cooper away right now, I swear to God I will break my vow of pacifism, slowly and painfully, on every single fucking thing in this place.” That bit wasn’t exactly in the film, he thinks, but he reckons he grasped the essential message. The lights go out.

     The lights go up. Cooper is in his grasp. Normal, Cooper, not grey eyed evil Cooper, not dead Cooper, but Cooper, looking confused, confused but alert.

     “Albert?” he says. “ _Albert_? What - ” He doesn’t get further than that right then, because Albert is clasping him to him roughly and tightly.

     “Coop,” he says, “There will be plenty of time to explain things later, but right now I need to get us the hell out of here.” He looks round the now empty room, the brighter room, and has an idea. Dragging Cooper with him by the hand, he goes to the curtains and gives them an almighty tug. There is a ripping sound. There is another ripping sound. He pulls some more, and the whole Black Lodge falls away around them, and he is holding Cooper’s hand. In that moment, Albert’s honestly not sure if he’s ever felt so satisfied.

***

     They come tumbling out into Glastonbury grove. It’s dark, but a smattering of moonlight lets him see that Cooper’s out cold. Albert has no idea how much time, if any has passed, can’t think clearly. He feels nauseous, intensely nauseous. Ah, Hawk and Truman are there. That’s good. Can’t have been too long. Truman goes over to check on Cooper and Hawk attends to Albert. His mind feels very fuzzy, and little stars are dancing on the edge of his vision.

     “Cooper,” he says.

     “He’ll be fine,” says Hawk, and Albert allows himself to pass out into Hawk’s competent hands.

***

     Albert wakes up from a dreamless sleep to a sunny room in the Great Northern hotel. The sight of the wood lining every surface and the horrible floral curtains gives him a warm and cosy sensation. They are not wholly familiar sensations to him. He drifts back to sleep. This time he has dreams.

     When he wakes up again, it is to find Truman and Doc Hayward by his bed.

     “Good you see you awake,” says Truman, sitting on the end of his bed while Hayward leans over him and gives him a quick medical once-over.

     “Cooper?” says Albert, wincing as Hayward sticks a cold stethoscope inside his pyjamas. He wonders for a moment who put him into them, but instantly rejects the thought; he’s not sure there’s a good answer to that question.

     “Cooper’s fine, Albert. Back to his old self.” Albert’s relief is tempered by the realisation that Truman’s looking at him with a slight wariness.

     “Don’t look at me like that, Sheriff,” he says, disgruntled, “I’m not a whatever-the-hell-it-was. Dweller on the Threshold.” Although, he thinks, remembering his doppelganger in the Black Lodge, how would they tell the difference? Another thought he pushes to the back of his mind. An existential crisis for another time. Truman smiles.

     “Sorry, Albert. You know, we’re all very - ”

     “Don’t get sentimental, Truman,” Albert says. Hayward is finishing up his checks. “I want to see Cooper.”

     “Ah – he woke up a couple of hours earlier than you, and felt pretty perky, so he’s gone to see Annie, I think.”

     “Right,” says Albert. He feels floaty and empty.

     “But you don’t seem quite so chipper,” says Hayward, packing away his stuff. “I’d rest today, Albert. I can get lunch sent up.”

     After Truman and Hayward leave, the floaty empty feeling stays with Albert for a while. He gets out of bed and roams the room restlessly. They’ve folded his clothes and put them on the chair by his bed. After a bit of rummaging, he’s relieved to find his cigarettes and lighter. As he smokes, leaning against the windowsill, the emptiness begins to leak away, and is replaced by a surfeit of feeling. Cooper went straight out to see Annie. Of course he did. Albert, mentally, understands. Of course Coop would want to see her. Why shouldn’t he? But emotionally, the feeling of resentment and neglect builds up, the pressure collecting behind his eyes. After what he did for Cooper – _no_ , he thinks, firmly, Cooper doesn’t owe him anything. He owes him his immortal soul, ripostes the other, bitter, voice inside him. He slides to the floor by the window, trying to focus his attention on the smoke filling his lungs. Tries not to imagine waking up to find Cooper by his bed, hand resting on Albert’s. The thought of this scene, and the comparison with the inferior reality of Truman and Hayward fussing over him, finally pushes out the first tears. He wipes them away angrily.

     “Christ, Rosenfield, get a grip,” he says to himself. The grip is not forthcoming. Next, his mind helpfully presents him with images from the Lodge. Cooper bleeding out on the floor, begging for Albert to help. Albert’s shadow-self cutting Coop’s throat - ah, that recollection brings forth the first sob from Albert. The memories from the Lodge, combined with bitter thoughts of Cooper and Annie now, even _now_ , wandering together hand in hand – in an impulse, he presses the lit cigarette to his hand. He yelps a little at the pain, but it calms him a little. That, he thinks, is not a healthy way to cope. To hell with it. He can think about healthy ways to cope later. The burn stems his urge to cry. For a while.

     Albert’s long and lonely afternoon alone in the hotel room is interrupted first by Hayward’s promised lunch being delivered. He picks at it restlessly. Secondly, it is interrupted by a knock on his door, mid-afternoon. Albert is filled with the hope and dread of it being Cooper. It isn’t. It’s Hawk. In the split second as they first look at each other, Albert sees that Hawk can tell he’s been crying, knows that Albert knows he can tell, and that he will not say anything. Albert is grateful for that.

     “Thought I’d look in on you, Agent,” says Hawk. “I hope you don’t mind that I undressed you last night. You were out cold.” Ah. So there’s the answer to that question. Well, there were worse answers, thinks Albert wryly. They talk for a little, and then Hawk, in accordance with an unexpressed wish, leaves Albert alone. He likes Hawk, more than any other occupant of this crappy little town. He could be friends with Hawk. No, he thinks. He couldn’t, because he doesn’t intend to step a single foot in Twin Peaks again after this time.

   It is early evening, and the sun is beginning to fade. Albert hasn’t set foot out of his room all day. He’s less prone to tears now. God knows how many cigarettes he’s got through. There is a knock on the door. Probably Hayward, he thinks. Giving him another check-up. Maybe Truman. He half considers refusing to open it, sealing himself in indefinitely. He does open it, though. It’s Cooper. Looking a little pale, but it’s _Cooper_.

     “Albert!” says Cooper. “I come bearing a slice of the Double R’s finest cherry pie.” It takes much of Albert’s remaining emotional energy not to burst into tears on Cooper’s shoulder right then. Cooper looks clean cut and energetic; Albert feels like a shambling wreck smelling of smoke.

     “Thanks, Cooper,” Albert says, taking the box of pie. It hurts him to hear how indifferent his own voice sounds. He puts the pie on the table, and is about to speak, but –

     “Annie was happy to give it to you on the house,” says Cooper. “She said to thank you.” And all the warmth that Albert had felt at Cooper bringing him a gift drains away.

     “Great,” he says. “How is the little nun?” Oh god, he sounds so horrible, so sneering, and for a moment his doppelganger dances before his eyes, smiling. Cooper is looking puzzled and hurt. Albert wants to apologise, but somehow doesn’t.

     “Albert,” says Cooper, but Albert finds himself cutting in.

     “Coop, if you think you can waltz in here after not even poking your head round the door all day, and expect me to be grateful for a charity slice of pie -”

     “ _Albert_ ,” says Cooper. Not angrily, but firmly. “Sit down.” Albert sits on the bed, feeling shaky, wondering if he actually is his own Dweller on the Threshold, half wishing he could take back what he said, half wanting to say more. Cooper is sitting next to him. “Albert,” he says, for the third time, “as soon as I got up and dressed I came through to see you. The doc told me in no uncertain terms not to disturb you, but I sat by your bed for quite a while. I guess you must have woken up not long after I left. Did Harry not tell you?”

     “No,” says Albert, not sure whether to laugh, cry, or jump out of the window. “I can safely say the good Sheriff missed that detail out.” Cooper is looking at him with a face radiating concern. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

     “You’ve been crying, Albert,” says Cooper, and his voice holds the same sense of wonder as it did when Albert made a stupid joke that one time. It hurts that Cooper seems so surprised that Albert is human.

     “Yeah, well,” says Albert. He’s lost for a snappy come back, which is probably all for the best. Perhaps he should try openness and honesty. Hah. A crazy idea, but it just might work. Things go a little awry, though, because whatever he was planning on saying to Coop, and he’s sure he _did_ have a plan, what actually comes out when he opens his mouth is “I love you, Coop.”

     Shit. _Shit_. That is exactly why telling people how you feel is a terrible idea without considerable practice, he thinks. You go right off the rails. But perhaps it isn’t all so terrible. Cooper, wordlessly, puts his hand on the back of Albert’s neck and draws him towards him until he is enfolded in Coop’s arms, resting against his chest. Their position, side by side on a bed, is not ideal for comfortable hugs, but even the slight awkwardness is not enough to disguise the undeniable fact that Cooper is perfect at hugging. It was to be expected. One hand is still warmly cupping the back of Albert’s neck, and his other arm is around Albert’s body, holding him to him. Albert can hear Cooper’s heart-beat. It’s a comforting sound.

     “I really had no idea,” said Cooper, stroking Albert’s back. Albert struggles free of the embrace, wishing he didn’t have to. Or wishing he didn’t feel he had to. If he lets himself unfold against Cooper, lets himself enjoy being in his arms, it’ll only be worse later. He sits up straight, pats his pockets for a cigarette. But his packet is empty.

     “Don’t see it makes much difference, Coop,” he says. “Unless you’ve been deeply undercover, you’re not gay, and - ”

     “Albert!” says Cooper, suddenly stern and reproving. His jaw can look very chiselled at times. “I hope I don’t have to explain the concept of bisexuality to you. Human sexuality, Albert, is a wonderful spectrum.”

     “Oh,” says Albert, wrong-footed again. He considers the ever-increasing capacity Cooper has to surprise him. Reminds himself, after the brief leap that his heart made, that Cooper and Annie are head over heels, and that Cooper’s bisexuality isn't going to change much.

     “Albert,” says Cooper. “I want you listen to me very carefully, without interrupting.” He places his hand on Albert’s arm. “Much like human sexuality, Albert, the human heart can be a wonderful, surprising thing.”

     “Coop, I’m not in the mood for one of your speeches,” says Albert, moving his arm away. He gets up and goes to the window. He needs not to feel Cooper so close to him. It’s grown darker outside, and where it was sunny before, it’s drizzling now.

     “I told you not to interrupt, Albert,” says Cooper behind him, very calmly. He hears Cooper stand up and walk closer to him. “The human heart can be a wonderful, surprising thing, and something I have always believed very firmly about the human heart is that it has an infinite capacity for love.” Cooper places a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t look round. He stares out at the grey mist, wishing he could smoke, wishing that he felt less unhappy. He’s paying the slightest of attention to what Coop’s saying. He knows it’s going to end in a kindly rejection and a friendly smile. “I don’t believe, Albert,” Cooper continues, “that being in love with one person necessarily excludes being in love with another person.” His words are beginning to filter through Albert’s brain now. He still doesn’t turn round. He hears Cooper sigh. “Albert, what I’m getting at is that my feelings for Annie, as strong as they are, have no bearing on whatever feelings I have for you.”

     “I don’t get it,” Albert says. “What feelings?” Cooper gently but firmly turns Albert round.

     “To use some of your colourful expressions, Albert,” he says, “you really can be a dolt, a dunce, and a dullard.”

     The next thing Albert discovers – it has been a busy couple of days for him – is that Cooper is somewhat less proficient at kissing than he is at hugging. The thing after that he discovers is that he could care less. As taken by surprise as he is, he musters from somewhere the energy to give it all he’s got, and when they break apart, Coop is looking a little pinker than he was. And even a little bashful. He pulls Albert to him and holds him, and this time Albert allows himself to relax into Cooper’s embrace.

     “What you did for me,” says Cooper, into his ear, “went beyond anything I could have expected.” Albert draws back for a moment.

     “You don’t owe me anything, Coop,” he says, anxious at the thought that Cooper is, through some idiosyncratic honour code, paying him back. Cooper draws him back into an embrace, stroking his back soothingly.

     “I know, Albert,” he says. There is a pause. Albert is not entirely sure what has just happened, but knows it is definitely better than what he expected to happen.

     “I’m sorry for what I said, Coop,” he says impulsively. Hell, if he’s going for the whole expressing his emotions thing, why not go the whole hog. Cooper kisses his hair.

     “You are more than forgiven,” he says, and a weight lifts from Albert’s heart. Cooper draws apart, and leads them to sit on the bed.

     “Albert,” he says. “I don’t know how things are going to work out with me and Annie. She’s - ” he breaks off, runs his hand through his hair, looking tired. “She’s not sure what she wants right now, and all I want to do until she decides is support her as much as she wants me to. But if it’s possible, I do want to try to be with her.” He pauses, looking at Albert’s face for a reaction. Albert’s not sure how he is reacting. He mainly feels a fluttering of hope underneath his ribcage. “But also with you, Albert,” Coop continues, sounding as if he is searching out a path with his words. “I don’t know if you’d want that -”

     “Coop,” says Albert, beginning to feel surer of himself, more like his old self (but not too much so, he reminds himself, remembering his double). “The idea sounds frankly insane.” Coop looks uncertain, alarmed, so Albert presses quickly on. “But I’ve known you long enough to know that I’d trust your brand of insanity more than most people’s sanity.” Coop smiles, a small, intensely charming smile. “And besides,” says Albert. “I’m pretty sure, after the last couple of days, that I’ve gone insane too, so I don’t think I’ve got a lot to lose.” Cooper’s smile is broader now.

     “So -”                                                                                                                                                   

     “To, uh, quote,” says Albert, “I have been, and always shall be, yours.” Coop’s brow furrows a little. “It’s from Star Trek,” continues Albert quickly, and kisses Cooper before he has the chance to say anything. It’s a good kiss.

 

 _Yeah I loved you all my life_  
_And that's how I want to end it_  
_The summer's almost gone_  
_The winter's tuning up_  
_Yeah, the summer's gone_  
_But a lot goes on forever_

Leonard Cohen, I Can’t Forget

 _I'll paint you mornings of gold._  
_I'll spin you Valentine evenings._  
_Though we're strangers 'til now,_  
_We're choosing the path_  
_Between the stars._  
_I'll leave my love_  
_Between the stars._

David Bowie, As The World Falls Down


End file.
